


Little Family

by ladyflowdi



Series: Seven Moons Series [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Breastfeeding, Childbirth, Coercion, Explicit Sexual Content, Extended Families, Families of Choice, Family, Forced Heat, Forced Marriage, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Male Lactation, Marriage, Mates, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mpreg, Non Consensual, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Post Mpreg, Pregnancy, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-08-28
Packaged: 2018-01-16 00:15:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1324588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyflowdi/pseuds/ladyflowdi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of vignettes connected to the Seven Moons verse, in no particular order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first of a series of prompts from Tumblr that I'm going to fill in this 'verse. They're all going to be housed here!
> 
> My first prompt: "I would love anything from your Seven Moons-Universe. Perhaps a story about another little princess or prince being on the way?" Thank you, anonymouse! Here it is. :)

John’s second heat after being mated to Sherlock is the worst he’s ever experienced.

Lady Hudson tells him, later, that it’s because he had such a hard labor with Aloise. He bled too much, and the labor was too long, and afterwards he’d been so gripped by terror that it had triggered those omega instincts he thought he’d long buried. He hadn’t been able to stand anyone near his little family; had bared his teeth at his servants and his best friends and sometimes, when he startled him, his _father_. He’d been so terrified that someone would take his baby that he hadn’t slept for days after her birth, and then in the weeks after only if Sherlock was holding her and pressed tightly to his side. Even now, during these long summer days where Aloise was walking and talking, so small and perfect and beautiful with her wide smiles, he felt that fear overcome him when she was out of sight, a ball of panic lodged right beneath his ribcage. 

So really, John isn’t terribly _surprised_ by the heat, nor the intensity of it – what he is surprised about is how quickly it comes over him. 

They’re in the orchard, one cool evening. His child is perched on her father’s shoulders, the captain’s hat her uncle had given her as a gift perched at a jaunty angle on her head. Sherlock’s got her by the knees, murmuring something to her, and she giggles loudly, dimples winking like little stars in her beautiful face, as she reaches up for the apple Sherlock has told her to get. She tugs on it, laughing even harder when the entire tree branch sways, and when the apple snaps free Sherlock sweeps her down from his shoulders to tickle her until she squeals. 

When he thinks back, that’s when he knows it happened, that moment. The love in his chest somehow drops low in his belly before fisting tight, an old and familiar ache, but what’s new is how badly it comes on him, how suddenly he goes from being normal, _fine_ , to something that has no description or name.

He finds himself swaying to a stop, and Sherlock asks, “John?”, and even their baby, their little Aloise, lifts her head.

Whatever she sees in his face makes her burst into tears.

“Oh, no, shhh,” he murmurs, taking her into his arms, though they feel a bit like noodles, and his knees unlikely to hold them for long. “Shhh, my darling. It’s alright.” 

“Is it?” Sherlock takes him by the elbow as John rocks her gently. His nostrils flare, and he knows, suddenly, what is happening. His expression of stunned joy would be funny in any other situation, John thinks, because for that moment he looks like a gaping fish, wide eyes and all. “John,” he says roughly – stops, swallows. “ _John_. Why didn’t you say something?”

His skin feels too hot, too small to contain him. He’s sweating; already the pain is gripping him with two fists, burning him from the inside out. 

Later, he won’t have any kind of recollection on how they make it back to the palace. He barely remembers Sherlock’s barked orders to the servants, or knocking at Mycroft’s door -- only the fever burning in him, the way Aloise squirms in his grip until he sets her down and she goes racing into her uncle’s arms. He won’t remember Lord Memnoc meeting them in the hallway at all, only the scent of his alpha, the feel of him under his hands, and the way they’re suddenly, blessedly, alone.

Their rooms smell of home, of _baby_ and _milk_ and more recently the good, healthy scent of children at play, but now there is the sharp, acrid scent of John’s own need. He’s so wet that when Sherlock kneels to undress him his thighs grow slick. His belly cramps something awful, and he digs a fist into it, whimpers.

“John,” Sherlock murmurs, looking up at him with eyes bright even in the dark. He looks so _surprised_ , and John thinks how funny it is that they should still have ‘firsts’ between them, mated now for so long. The only other heat they’d shared was one driven by potions and medicines, mindless and full of pain.

John bursts into tears, not unlike his own daughter had. “Sherlock,” he chokes out, fists against his eyes. “Sherlock. I’m sorry.”

“What would you have to be sorry for?” Sherlock asks softly. “You could no more control this than breathing.”

They both know what this means – and why being omega is such a curse. John has a strong, virile mate, plenty of food to eat, and a warm, safe place to sleep. His baby is healthy, a year weaned and eager to learn and play. 

His body is ready to carry a child again. This is how it tells him, how it will continue to tell him until he’s been bred. 

A spasm curls through his belly, makes him shudder, makes him drop his head to press his face there into Sherlock’s hair. He’s crying because he’s terrified, because he isn’t ready, not yet, not with Aloise so tiny, so in need of their attention. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Sherlock says softly. He stands, tilting John’s head back to look into his eyes, and oh, that this should be his mate, that he should be so lucky. Sherlock would deny his own body for him. He would suffer through a rut for him if it’s what John wanted, his own needs ignored and pushed aside. He would do it willingly, blindly, without question, and John knows it. “Tell me what to do, John. What do I do?”

He shudders, open and wet and ready. There’s only one thing to do, one thing that could possibly be done. “Aloise. Is she okay?”

“Mycroft is going to care for her,” his mate says, pain in his eyes. He thumbs gently along John’s jaw. 

“I’m so scared,” John chokes out. “I want another baby, I want to be full with your baby again, but I’m so scared.”

His mate rumbles a moan so low and soft and deep that it could only come from the heart, from that well in Sherlock that made him _alpha_. “I have you,” Sherlock tells him, low and sure. “Nothing will happen to you, or to Aloise, or to this child we are going to make. Do you trust me?”

“Sherlock.”

His mate gives him a single, hard shake. He’s never been more serious, his dark eyes glinting with the gray-blue of his magic. “ _Tell me_. Do you trust that nothing will happen to you, while I still breathe?”

“I trust you,” John sobs, and Sherlock gathers him into his arms and takes him to bed.

This is their first true heat, together. They learn that Sherlock isn’t the sort of alpha to go into rut -- that an omega’s heat, even his mate’s, doesn’t trigger his season. John’s glad, achingly glad, because one of them should keep their head, and it’s painfully obvious it isn’t John. This isn’t like normal sex between them, laughter and kisses and the joy of being together, of having one another. Heat has him losing time, mindless with the need to mate, to fill his belly with Sherlock’s seed. He wants it so badly that all he can do is sob when Sherlock doesn’t give it to him fast enough, when Sherlock is too tired to continue and he must keep his fingers curled in John like a knot, as John writhes and begs for more.

It ends, abruptly, on the fourth day, and John knows what’s happened. The fever lifts, leaves him shaking and exhausted and spent, and Sherlock presses soft kisses to his belly, to each mark where his skin stretched when he was pregnant with Aloise. 

Four months later, they’re on their evening stroll once more. It’s too cold to be outside, for Aloise and John both, and so they had settled for strolling through the palace, exploring the nooks and crannies where magic seemed to gather of its own volition. Captain Aloise had been bringing them back her treasures, but tonight she’d been looking at John as if he were a puzzle she had to figure out, her tiny face scrunched into an expression so like Sherlock’s it had taken John’s breath away. 

The fourth time she runs up to him, she’s clutching a tiny glass bottle that had obviously fallen from someone’s basket and rolled away into a corner of the hall. That his daughter had found it was no surprise – that she races up to him before gently handing it to him _was_. “This for him,” she says, pointing, and John doesn’t understand until suddenly, he _does._

He looks up to see Sherlock smiling, warmth suffusing all the rough angles of his face, and Aloise giggles loudly, as if they’d just shared some wonderful secret. John thinks perhaps they have, but he’s too stunned to do anything more than drop a hand to the soft, small swell of his belly, where his child – his _boy_ – is growing. 

“Let it be known, right now, that my father is going to try and insist we give him some horrid family name, and I refuse purely on principle,” Sherlock says regally, before taking his hand and pressing a kiss to their linked fingers. “Onward Captain Aloise, on this, our grand adventure.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ten hours, John bled, and none could pull Sherlock from his side – not even his father, sickly and pale and thin from his weeks of incarceration, nor his kingdom, lying in ruins at his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another prompt fill! This one comes from floopower: "Would it be possible to see something where Sherlock is taking care of John after Aloise's birth?"
> 
> I don't think I filled it out exactly like floopower wanted, because Sherlock is the kind of character who Does What He Wants without my say-so, but here it is.

Sherlock, for all that he is royalty, the youngest of a line unbroken for millennia, is not without his fair share of sorrow. And yet, even the worst moments of his life could but hold a flame to the roaring fire of terror when he saw his mate, snapping and growling like a whipped dog, in a pool of his own blood, the bodies of those tasked with protecting him beside him.

The bleeding had not stopped. Not after the afterbirth had been delivered, nor when the babe – his _daughter_ , the fruit of their union – had nursed. John had bled while Lord Tyren had begged his son’s forgiveness, and he had bled when Lady Hudson came with her potions, and he bled into the night, until his skin had gone as white as new-fallen snow and Sherlock came to understand a fear so deep it was as if it were eating him alive, from the core of his being out. 

Ten hours, John bled, and none could pull Sherlock from his side – not even his father, sickly and pale and thin from his weeks of incarceration, nor his kingdom, lying in ruins at his feet.

Lord Tyren called for the doctors, those physicians that had accompanied the battalions on their march into the Realm of the Seven Moons. They were field doctors, accustomed to patching wounds and setting bones, not the art of caring for an omega dying from childbirth. And yet, those field doctors, when they came, did more than Sherlock’s parade of useless physicians could, and when the new sun rolled up from the hills, John still yet breathed.

The physicians had left them after the procedure – Sherlock was well aware that nothing else could be done for him, that now it was up to his mate to heal. 

He stares down – not at John, skin the color of the sheets under him and so still he had to keep his fingers wrapped around John’s wrist to convince himself he yet lived – but his daughter, the girlchild so wanted and so loved. She is small, even for the babe of an omega of the plain realms; so small that he can hold her in the cup of his hands. There is an emotion enormous and painful and incompressible within his chest, an emotion he cannot name or even classify, but he thinks for the first time that not only would he be capable of murder, but would seek it out.

He meets his brother’s eyes. “I’ll blackmail you if I must.”

Mycroft, though he himself is thin and sickly from his time in the northern king’s prison cell, snorts from the chair beside his. “Unnecessary. He will be found.”

John’s chest moves up and down, slowly, so slowly. “He nearly took them from me.”

“Not his smartest move,” Mycroft agrees. He has not dared touch the child, this new addition to their family. None of them had any sort of idea what an omega – especially one so ill as John – would do if he were to encounter a strange scent on his babe. “Burial arrangements have been made.”

Burial. The people lost in the battle. “Michael?”

“Sent to sea this morning,” Mycroft says quietly. Sherlock knows that they had been friends; that once those feelings ran deeper, much more than friendship between them. Sherlock remembered his father’s anger and anguish, had understood it even – there was no room in their society for a union between a prince and a slave. 

How funny life worked out, because in the end Michael had been born a slave, but had died a prince of the blood. 

He can’t think about it – about Serra and her deception, about James’ plot to take John and his child. He can’t think about it because it fills him with a terrifying rage, makes his magic prickle and burn under his fingertips. 

The baby whimpers in Sherlock’s arms, her tiny face puckering in a frown, and from the bed comes, “Give her to me.”

John. Awake, his dark blue eyes slitted open. His words are slurred but it is _him_ , and Sherlock is moving before thinking his limbs into action. He sits at his mate’s side, careful not to jostle him, and supporting the baby’s neck, settles her into the curve of John’s arm. Behind him Mycroft leaves, undoubtedly to fetch the physicians. 

John is weak, so terribly weak, but Sherlock helps him when it becomes clear he wishes to nurse, an answer to the baby’s cries. He supports both John and the babe, helps his mate turn the sobbing child until her tiny mouth opens on instinct, and leads her to her latch. John is pale as death but his eyes burn as he stares down at their daughter, an answered love caught there in Sherlock’s heart. 

He strokes his fingers softly through John’s hair, until he has his mate’s attention. “How are you feeling?”

“Terrible,” John say, voice so rough he can barely be understood. 

The monster of rage battles at the bars where Sherlock has caged it. “To be expected.” 

John stares down at their baby, at the sounds she makes as she nurses. It’s as if she can’t suckle fast enough, and Sherlock realizes with horror that he hadn’t fed her – all night he hadn’t fed her, hadn’t even thought to feed her, because John had been dying. He is crushed beneath the guilt. He is alpha. This is his family. He must protect them, must do everything he can to be sure of their safety and their survival, but he hadn’t fed his child all night, hadn’t even thought to wash her or clean her. She is still wrapped in the old blanket from his laboratory, the blanket John had used to warm her after giving birth alone.

“John,” he croaks, and John raises a shaking hand to his face, as if Sherlock were the creature that needed protecting. “I’m so sorry. I’m so very sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” John tells him, but he knows nothing, because their child is trembling and covered in old blood. “I love you, so much.”

He drops his head, presses a kiss to John’s palm, because his face is wet. He does not want John to see his shame. 

After a little while John falls into an exhausted sleep, the babe still tucked into his side. Eventually Sherlock will take her into his arms again, when the physicians arrive. Lady Hudson will show him how to burp her, and bathe her, and dress her. She will tell him how terribly important it is to keep babies warm, because they no longer have their mummy to do it for them, safe in their belly. She will tell him all these things and Sherlock will follow her words to the letter. 

He had failed his family, but he has a lifetime to make amends. 

He begins nearly a month later, one morning when John and the baby are in the bathtub, looked after by Lady Hudson and a handful of servants. He is changing the blankets in the bassinet when Mycroft enters, Lestrade at his side, and says, “The accomplices have been found.”

The monster of rage rattles the bars. Sherlock unlocks the door, and his magic burns under his skin.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John loves taking his baby to the village.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A prompt from re-white: "If you're still taking prompts I would *love* to see some variation of Seven Moons!John unexpectedly kicking someone's ass with acuity. (Bonus points if it's in defense of Mycroft. I adored Seven Moons head to toe, and some of my favorite scenes were the bits where John and Mycroft interact)."
> 
> I LOVE Mycroft and John's relationship -- the sass levels are astronomical -- so I couldn't help myself, even if it was mushier than I originally planned. :) Enjoy.

John loves taking his baby to the village.

She’s six months old, now, and the most precocious little girl he’s ever seen – a fact he would remark on regardless, and not just because she’s his child. Her big blue eyes are always wide open, staring at everything around her, and her fingers are constantly searching out and grabbing at things. 

In the ideal world he would cradle her in his arms everywhere they went, but she’s a squirmy little thing, and eager to learn about her world, so he makes do by strapping her to him in a sling, her back to his chest, so her little feet can kick to their heart’s content and she can see everything happening.

If John is protective of his daughter than Sherlock is fanatic. The boy who had taken John’s virginity, who had been at his side every moment of his pregnancy, has become a man, an alpha of exceptional character. Protective to border on insanity, he refuses to let them leave the palace without an escort – in this case, whoever has the misfortune of being nearest to them when John declares his intent to go into town.

“I sincerely don’t understand my brother’s concern,” Mycroft says, with a sniff. He looks terribly out of place among the commoners, in his midnight blue tunic and shining boots. The sword at his hip has been in their family for generations, its hilt encrusted with sapphires and emeralds. “The village is perfectly safe.”

“Yes, well,” John says offhand, picking up an apple from a vendor’s display. Aloise kicks her feet and chews on her fist, babbling contentedly. The vendor is smiling at her, making faces so she’ll laugh. His baby, he’s been told, has the funniest laugh in all the ten realms, and whenever she starts to giggle she brings everything around her to a standstill. 

Mycroft is very careful of her, his Aloise. He dotes on her to a degree that should be absurd, but instead suffuses John with warmth. This is his family – unwanted at first, and yet he now finds himself unable to imagine his life without them in it. 

Mycroft catches his eye, and whatever mush of emotions he sees in John’s face makes him roll his eyes. John laughs, and Aloise laughs too, and Mycroft says, “Honestly, you both are patently ridiculous,” and Aloise beams at her uncle, feet kicking, as if to agree with him.

They carry on in their shopping – or rather, John wanders from stall to stall, buying vegetables and crusty breads and fine cheeses, flagons of finely pulped juices and, when finally he can resist no more, the beautiful sweets that the realm was known for.

Aloise in particular is thrilled. She loves fruits, finely mashed just for her by the doting kitchen staff, but like her father she has a taste for sweets. Mycroft buys her a biscuit, which she gums at under John’s watchful eye. They’re both going to be covered in sticky sugar before she’s through, but it’s worth it for the joy in his daughter’s eyes, the way she squirms with glee the moment before her uncle gives it to her. 

Later that night, John will think back and try to explain how he knew something was amiss, and come up empty handed. It was simply a soldier’s intuition – too many years on a battlefield, too much life experience. He simply knew, moments before it happened, that they were going to be robbed.

It happens in seconds. He sees the man dart out from a doorway from the corner of his eye, headed towards Mycroft with a knife in hand, and John’s instinct kicks in before he can possibly stop himself.

He grips his baby with one arm, tight against his chest, and reaches for Mycroft’s sword with the other. It sings as it slides from the sheath, and as Mycroft turns with surprise, the thief’s knife misses him by inches. The thief stumbles, eyes wide with shock, John pivots, as natural as breathing, using the hilt of the sword to bash the man on the back of the head, sending him crashing into the ground.

There is a moment of stunned, still silence, and then – chaos.

The vendors come racing out, and Aloise sobs, though more for her dropped biscuit than from fright. John hands the sword back to Mycroft, who has gone still as death, the blood gone from his face. The sweets vendor grips John by the arms and leads him away from the unconscious man’s body, and John realizes he’s trembling, though not from his sudden exertion, or fright.

Aloise is wailing, and the vendor helps John to sit, and Mycroft’s mouth purses with fury as he turns to the man sprawled on the ground, and John—

John’s face hurts from trying not to smile.

He is strong, and hard, and fierce. He is omega.

He shushes Aloise gently, and bounces her until the vendor gives her another biscuit. She takes it with hitched little breaths, and gives them both a tremulous smile, and John wipes her tears gently as the yelling kicks up outside. 

Sherlock arrives at some point, as do far more of Lestrade’s knights as is necessary, and when his mate bursts into the vendor’s stall, he looks every inch the prince regent, eyes wild and dark with his magic.

It’s not a look John ever wanted to see on Sherlock’s face again – a fear so deep it seems incomprehensible to imagine how they could have ever lived without one another, when they are two parts of the same whole. He murmurs, “Sherlock,” but his mate is not listening, can’t be listening, because he comes to his knees before them, runs trembling hands over John’s shoulders and arms, presses soft kisses to Aloise’s head. He is white to the lips. “Sherlock,” he tries again, softly, tugging lightly on one of his mate’s curls. “I’m alright. We’re both alright.”

“You were attacked,” Sherlock says gruffly, and John reaches out and rubs his thumb gently under his mate’s eye, just as he’d done to his daughter. Sherlock kisses the palm of his hand, holds it to his face with eyes closed.

“Only a bit.” John ducks down until he can catch his mate’s eye. “We’re fine. I’ve not forgotten how to defend myself, or the people I love.”

“He could have hurt you.”

“Yes, he could have, but he didn’t.” Not while he still breathed.

He pulls his mate close, their baby between them, as she’s always been. Only now she isn’t safe in his belly – now she tugs at her father’s lapel, gets it sticky with sugar as she babbles, undoubtedly, about their adventure. Sherlock buries his face there in the soft wisps of her hair, and with a glance to John for his consent, lifts her from the sling and cradles her against his neck where his scent is strongest.

It calms her, as it always does – _father_ and _alpha_ and _home_ – and she sucks on her fingers, staring at John with soulful eyes. She’s so small, there against the wide plane of her father’s chest. Sherlock takes John’s hand in his, lacing their fingers tightly. “I trust you’re done with your shopping.”

John’s lips curl. “I think I’ve made enough of a spectacle today, yes.”

Sherlock’s smile is breathtaking, for all that it is so quick. It’s full of relief, and pride, and John loves him, he loves him so very, very much.

They walk, hand-in-hand, back to the castle.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night before the wedding, Sherlock bolts like a terrified horse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a fill for two prompts! 
> 
> Anonymouse's request: "I would like a scene where sherlock is arguing with his father about his marriage to John or maybe a scene just before he meets him for the first time?"
> 
> and drillmeow's request: "I was wondering if you would ever consider writing sherlock's point of view when john and him are drugged and consummate their marriage. I would love to know what he thought of john when they fist met."
> 
> Please be aware that as with Seven Moons, this scene contains dubcon and noncon, non consensual drug use, coercion, and forced mating as set in the A/B/O world. If ANY of that is a trigger for you, please don't read.

When Sherlock’s father informs him that he’s been married off, like a man would tell his servant to send a pair of boots for mending, Sherlock goes a bit off the deep end.  


He’s not proud of his reaction, he truly isn’t. In years to come he would, in fact, be unable to look back on this time without his cheeks warming. To say it was a typical sulk would somehow imply that Sherlock hadn’t destroyed much of his bedroom and his relationship with his father. In years past, such temper tantrums had, if not _swayed_ his father, at least informed him of Sherlock’s Very Serious Thoughts on the Matter. The first warning sign should have been his father’s total lack of compassion.

Sherlock had no interest in being wed, regardless of the fact that he was his father’s heir, prince regent to the Realm of the Seven Moons, and was therefore expected to procreate at some point. Princesses of foreign courts held little appeal – women raised in wealth tended to be, for the most part, presumptuous, conceited, and if truly unlucky, beautiful. It was his experience that beautiful women relied on their looks rather than their brains. He’d rather chew on shards of broken glass than consider lashing himself to one. 

He found marriage to be a preposterous and utterly asinine institution, and could not conceive why anyone would willingly lash themselves to another person for the rest of their days. It simply made no _sense_. He understood the physical urges as well as anyone – he was alpha, after all, and went into season just as other alphas did. But those were physical urges, that was the _rut_ , the body’s attempt to procreate and spread one’s line. At no point whatsoever should the cost of being alpha result in being tied to another person, both literally and figuratively, for the rest of his days.

And then, as if to placate him, his father tells him that he is to wed not a princess, but a _prince_ , an omega of exceptional breeding, who would give him many children.

The night before the wedding, he bolts like a terrified horse.

It’s panic, he knows, that makes him slip out of the castle like a thief in the night. He has no plan, has little coin with him, but the panic that had been eating at his heart had grown legs, had clawed its way into the core of magic within him and made him stupid with fright.

So, he runs. He doesn’t make it far, didn’t think he really would, but it’s symbolic enough. _He tried to run_ , and isn’t at all embarrassed when his uncle drags him, quite literally, into his father’s antechamber.

“You’ve taken complete leave of your senses,” Mycroft says, awed. 

Sherlock snarls at him, a wordless and terrible thing that speaks to the alpha brimming right under the thin layer of his control. His hair has sticks and leaves in it, and his cloak has torn at the shoulder, but still, Sherlock thinks he gets his point across, even if Mycroft’s lips quirk in a smile.

His father is pinching the bridge of his nose, as if staving off a growing headache. “Sherlock, you’ve left me little choice.”

“Little choice? I’ve barely seen twenty five summers,” Sherlock bellows, stalking the length of his father’s chambers. “I have plenty of time to find—”

“You and I both know that you won’t,” Father tells him mildly, _kindly_. “The boy was a surprise, my son. Lord Tyren agreed to the Bidding for his hand in marriage at the last possible moment – it was to be the girl, the twin daughter. Omegas rarely come to a Bidding, and male omegas even more rarely. His mating price was high.”

For one shining moment, he can’t actually believe what his father is implying. “Do you want me to _thank you for this_?” Sherlock roars.

Father’s eyes narrow. “Was he not to your specifications?” he asks, and from his desk drawer pulls out the long and detailed letter Sherlock had written him on the very subject. He unrolls it slowly, as all the blood runs out of Sherlock’s face. “Here you say you will, and I quote, “never take a princess for a mate, on threat of ending the line with my untimely, unwarranted demise.” Well, child, melodramatics aside, I have fulfilled my obligation as father and king – I have married you not to a princess, but an omega prince of fine character, who will produce for you the children to continue our family’s line. Now it is time to fulfill your end of the bargain.”

The world is swaying under his feet. “You would condemn him, and me, to a loveless marriage.”

“There is more to life than love, Sherlock,” Father says quietly. “Your mother and I were married much as you will be today, and we came to find a peaceful life together, filled with our children and a mutual admiration for one another.”

He can’t live like that. A spouse of _exceptional breeding_ , quiet days, no conversation. The boredom of such a life terrifies him to the quick – makes his heart speed up and his chest heave and he finds himself banging out of the room, running away with nowhere to go. 

 

.

The omega arrives in the Realm of the Seven Moons as the sun prepares for its descent from the sky.

The town has been decorated, and the townspeople line the streets. He _knows_ that his mate has arrived because Sherlock can hear the people cheering from the temple, where his father is attempting to straighten Sherlock’s collar. Within the temple itself are the members of the peerage, as well as their extended family. Cousins, twice and thrice removed, his uncle, even Lady Hudson, are all in attendance, all in their finest wedding attire.

He does not know how to articulate the well of grief within him. It is a sadness, a _helplessness_ , that eats at the center of his being. He has no choice in this – he never did, not once he accepted his brother’s title. His father does him the honor of not trying to ease his mind, but he does squeeze Sherlock’s shoulder, hard, and presses a small vile on him. “Drink,” he says, quietly. “It will calm you.”

The potion tastes of apples, and burns going down.

The caravan arrives, escorted by seven of his father’s finest horses. Lord Tyren, ruler of the Realm of the Horse Lords, descends from the carriage, and with him the boy who would be Sherlock’s mate.

He is but a little slip of an omega, hardly old enough to be married, let alone out from under his mother’s skirts. He is also blindfolded, and barefoot, and chained like an animal being led to the slaughter.

The chains the boy wears rattle against the polished marble floor. Two priests flank him, though whether to assist him or keep him from running remains unclear. With each of his uneven steps the blood runs out of Sherlock’s body, until he is cold and shaky and silent with the horror of what he is witnessing. The boy is _trembling_ , he knows this because there are dainty bells at each of his chained wrists, and Sherlock realizes that this is their _custom_ , that these savage people fall in line with the stories of old, of omegas gifted and bartered like objects and not living souls, _human souls_ with so much more to give than the fruits of their womb.

The boy is white to the lips, and when the priests let go he sways on his feet. They all jerk forward – Sherlock, and his father, and Lord Tyren – but the boy straightens himself out at the last moment, ducking his head down as if he can see the ground beneath his bare feet.

The ceremony goes on, and on, and _on_ , but all Sherlock can see are the golden chains, the fingers twisted together, the feet gone pale and blue with cold. He is so small, Sherlock thinks. So small, and defenseless, and the rage within him is a monster beating at the door, tingling in his fingertips and the back of his throat. He can smell it, the thick chemical burn of his anger. 

Lord Tyren formally gives Sherlock his son’s hand. The boy must shuffle forward to reach it, and Sherlock thinks that, were he in a different time, he would have left Lord Tyren a smear on the landscape, for so thoughtlessly giving his child away.

He still might.

His father begins to speak and the crowd rises once, and then twice, to signify to setting sun and rising moon. The priestesses chant, the crowd hums, and his belly begins to warm, an awful and all-too-familiar ache. When he looks up, his father is yet chanting, but in his eyes now is a soft and terrible sorrow. Fear chokes him as it has never done, because surely his father hadn’t – surely – 

Already the familiar scents of his father and Mycroft are filling him with that prickly ire he remembers from his last season; already he can sense the alpha within, which was always prowling in the back corners of his mind, waiting now to be sprung free. Already there is an _ache_ , painful in his loins, and with it a cold terror which strikes him mute.

That it is his father who has done this to him tightens his throat, makes his eyes well. They are chanting and the boy before him is shaking and Sherlock realizes that he is going to hurt him, this omega who would be his mate. He will endure, and endure, and then he will go mindless with it, his season brought months too early – _the rut_. 

Last year they had locked him away in a dark little cell in the dungeon. He had broken his own arm, trying to get out.

One of the priests finally unties the boy’s blindfold, and Sherlock can only watch, helpless, as tears overflow and tremble down cheeks which would never grow a beard. Their eyes meet. The boy is perhaps the most beautiful omega Sherlock has ever met, and he hates himself for thinking so. Already this boy had been hurt – already he had been bartered and sold – and now, in just a few short hours, the alpha within would take over and Sherlock would hurt him even more, in the worst way one person could hurt another.

 

.

The ceremony ends, and the omega is swept off in the carriage once more, with the Priestess of the Moon. Sherlock watches him leave, his uneven steps and the streak of tears down his face, the hunch of his shoulders as he avoids the gaze of Sherlock’s family.

His father grips him by the shoulder. “Don’t think on it, my child.” 

He is numb with his own fear. He stares at his father, the man who had bounced him on his knee, who had held him the nights after Mother’s passing, who had loved him even when it became painfully clear that Sherlock was hardly the model son. He stares at his father, and can’t believe that he would hurt him so much. “What have you done?” he whispers.

“It’s for the best, Sherlock,” Father tells him gently, gently. There is no regret in his eyes, only the soft remorse he has seen so often. “You must consummate the union tonight, before Lord Tyren returns to his realm. Once you have mated, our marriage contracts will hold strong and true.”

Mycroft is at his side, and his father – his _family_. They understood more than most the grip of the alpha within. “Don’t let me do this,” he says, and realizes that perhaps for the first time in his life he is openly begging his father. Mycroft’s fingers tighten on his shoulder. “Please. Don’t let me do this.”

“It’s for the best,” Father says again, softly. 

His scent makes Sherlock want to lash out against this alpha who would draw too close, and he chokes on his own fear, even as his father leads him, hand at his shoulder, to their own carriage.

Lord Tyren is waiting in the throne room, upon their arrival. Around him is the dowry – dozens of chests filled with diamonds and emeralds, bolts of fine cloth, golden chalices, crates of fruits and cheeses, and barrels of wine. 

Sherlock has never hated another human being quite as much as he hates Lord Tyren. He is a portly little man, with eyes that perhaps in another life had been prone to joy. This man, Sherlock knows, is perhaps worse than Sherlock’s own father, because Lord Tyren had an omega in his charge, an achingly beautiful wisp of a boy who should have been protected, _guarded_ from the likes of Sherlock and his ilk.

The priestesses come, as they always do, and anoint Sherlock – forehead, chin, breast, then down low, between his legs where already he is stirring. He jerks from their touch but his father is at his back, holding him still, and he must endure. They touch him where no one should be touched without their will, then down to his knees. 

One of the women, Belany, unties his boots, removes them with a practiced hand, and presses the oils into the tops of his feet. It burns, where it meets his skin.

Lord Tyren bows low. “My lord, are the gifts to your liking?”

It takes Sherlock an embarrassing amount of time to realize Lord Tyren is speaking to _him._

“Your gifts are sufficient,” Sherlock says – _snaps_ , with far too much emotion. Mycroft is a calming presence at his side, for all that he smells like _rival._

“My lord, I bring you not only these small and paltry gifts, but also two hundred of the finest horses of our land, male and female,” Lord Tyren continues, formally. “It is but a small gesture, one I hope you will accept.”

Sherlock stares at him, this rat of a man, and hates him with a visceral and terrible sharpness beneath his ribs. “Is that your son’s worth?” he snaps, and his father freezes beside him. 

Mycroft tugs him back, firmly, and his father says, “Please, excuse me son. He has been given the mating draught.”

Lord Tyren’s face is flushed, splotchy in places, but he acquiesces demurely. Sherlock thinks it’s rather a shame that his father is not the sort to go about making war.

One of the servants arrives, then, and says, “My lord, the prince has been prepared,” and the bottom of Sherlock’s stomach goes out from under him. 

Gently, and without explanation, Lord Tyren presses a key on a leather thong into Sherlock’s hand. No good can come from it, but when he asks what it is for, Lord Tyren remains silent.

The trip to the suite the boy has been given seems to take an eon, and yet is over in the blink of an eye. When his father opens the door, the scent of a fertile and receptive omega nearly takes Sherlock down at the knees.

It hurts, worse than anything he’s ever experienced, to see this boy in the center of the bed like a fucking _gift_ , in gossamer robes that couldn’t hope to hide the hard length of his penis, or the sweat beaded at his temples and the hollow of his throat. He’s ridiculously lovely, the boy, with the sweet features of an omega – rounded, upturned nose, large eyes, soft curves. What makes him so intriguing is that overlaying those features are the calluses on his hands, his skin bronzed from time spent out in the sun. 

Sherlock tamps down on the terrifying feeling building within him with a will of iron. 

His father takes a turn around the room, inspecting everything – inspecting the boy. “Prince Jounhin,” he says, and the boy _keens_ , a sound so lost and wretched that Lord Tyren cringes beside him. “I hope that I will not be disappointed.”

“No, Sire,” the boy whispers, dropping his head. He’s so frightened he’s shaking, his fingers knotted in the dressing gown at his knees. “I will try to please you.”

His father nods, and meets Sherlock’s eyes. “The lords and ladies in waiting will be in the hall, if you require anything. The priests will come to ascertain consummation,” he adds. “Do not allow him to bathe until then.”

Rage coats the inside of his throat. He thinks he must speak, but he doesn’t know what he says.

The man, Lord Tyren, murmurs low to his child, and the omega flinches back, cowering. He’s terrified. He has every right to be. 

The door closes behind them, and Sherlock is not proud of the panic that he must stamp down on. A part of him, a very loud and vocal part, knows that he must leave, right this moment, before he loses control of himself. And yet, his feet are glued to the ground as if he’d stepped in sap. His own fear is near to overwhelming him, because he doesn’t remember what he does when he is in rut. That he would hurt this boy makes him want to run screaming, and yet he could no more open the door than he could take a single step away. 

He hates himself, with a burning fire that matches the heat in his belly.

“I’m sorry,” he says, though he truly has no idea what he’s sorry for – there are so many things he wishes to apologize for that he’s overwhelmed. “I tried to – this entire situation is utterly barbaric, but there was no talking my father out of it once he got it in his head.”

The boy is trembling, and perhaps without his realizing it he arches his back, a sensuous movement that calls to any alpha with eyes. For one shining moment Sherlock seriously considers throwing himself out the window. “I knew you only as the younger son, last I visited your kingdom.”

Sherlock has but a hazy recollection of two blond children, tiny, all of four years old, running and playing in the castle during one of his father’s summits. He’d been too busy then, for the games of childhood; far too grown at eight years old to be seen with _babies._

Sherlock clenches his eyes shut with the horror of their situation. It’s not unlike being trapped, pressed down into the earth with the entire weight of his father’s expectation sitting on his shoulders. 

He thinks of his own father, who had at one point found himself in this very situation, a foreign woman sitting on his bed, waiting for him – the woman who would become Sherlock’s mother, who would love her three boys until the day she passed on. The woman who had been a magic-wielder in her own right, who had lived and thrived in the cold light of the Seven Moons.

He thinks of this boy, this omega who glowed with vitality, trapped here where the sun rarely shined, and hates his father. 

“Sherlock,” he says softly, gruffly. “My name is Sherlock.”

The boy swallows. “Jounhin,” is his reply. It’s beautiful, the way it rolls off the tongue – a beautiful name for a beautiful omega. “But I hate that, reminds me of a stuffy old uncle. You can call me John.”

“John, then. The particulars of what is to occur here tonight have been explained to me,” he says, not with a little disgust. “As I’m sure they have been to you.”

The boy’s cheeks flush, and he turns away, and the fury in Sherlock rises up once more. “The entire situation is ridiculous, and when I am king my sons will not endure the—”

He stops, catching himself, because of course – of course – 

Unsteady on his feet, he sits, hard, on the desk in the corner of the room. “What have you been told, John?”

“To shut up and do as I’m told.” John’s face is a mask of contempt, and Sherlock is shamed by the thrill of it, the spark of character in his mate’s expression. “I’m sure my father told you I tried to run.”

He hadn’t – though it doesn’t surprise him. John’s eyes are hard, his face set with a streak of stubbornness that is beautiful to behold. He can easily see him escaping in the thick of night. 

“Yes,” Sherlock replies, carefully neutral. “He may have said something to that effect. There are guards on watch for you.”

“No doubt.” John’s gaze turns up to him. “I don’t know these lands. It’s cold, and my home – that is, the Realm of the Horse Lords, is much warmer than it is here.”

Sherlock came to his feet immediately. “Are you cold now?”

John’s lips quirk -- a small and self depreciating little smile that lightens Sherlock’s heart. “I can honestly say I’m not. Though, if you don’t mind, I’d rather not sit here like some sort of concubine.”

Sherlock’s father had many items of clothing prepared for the boy’s arrival – as was customary, many of the boy’s clothes had been made from Sherlock’s own clothing, so that they carried his scent. He knows what he’s looking for, and he approaches John now for the first time, a nightshirt in tow.

John’s smiles in thanks, and Sherlock turns away, giving him privacy – though in a few minutes it won’t matter. He unbuttons his jacket, his shirt, and John’s breathing speeds up, loud and panicked in the quiet of the room. Sherlock has never hated himself more.

Sherlock doesn’t know if it’s their proximity, or the potion forced on them, but the smell of John is so sweet in the air that Sherlock feels saturated in it. It makes his head swim, makes his heart pound a sharp beat against his ribcage.

“Did they give you the key?” John asks, in the silence.

“Key?”

John shifts uncomfortably, his face going red. After a long moment he turns his head away and lifts the nightshirt, and Sherlock sees burnished metal, tight around John’s genitals, marking his soft, pale skin. It’s looped around his hips, dips down behind him – beautiful, and functional, and so totally terrifying that he doesn’t know what to say, what he could possibly say to make the chastity belt any less degrading.

The key is in his jacket, and when Sherlock leans down to get it, John begins to laugh. Sherlock glances over his shoulder and sees him on his back on the bed, his arm over his eyes. “Your physicians drugged me.” 

It is patently clear that they had. No omega’s heat came on so quickly, so suddenly. His scent carried with it a chemical tang, something unnatural, something _forced_. The rut was terrible, days of mindlessness and pain, but Sherlock knew enough about omegas to know that their heat was something far, far worse. “I know,” he finally says. “They drugged me too.”

“Is this part of the ritual?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, though he has absolutely no idea.

John lifts his dressing gown, when Sherlock comes to sit at his side. It really is a breathtakingly beautiful contraption, etched with looping, flowering filigree that creates the crest of his house, in a plate over his small penis. Thin metal chains loop over the curve of his hips and down, ending in the chastity piece between his legs. 

He realizes, with horror, that the chastity piece is not only protecting John’s virginity. There is something _in him_ , as if holding Sherlock’s place. 

Sherlock stares down at the lock there at John’s thigh. It has chafed his skin, left it red and scraped and swollen. “You’ll be surprised to know that arranged marriages can sometimes get off to a rocky start.”

John makes a thoroughly rude noise, peeking out from under his arm. His eyes are beautiful, bright with the fever of heat. “You don’t say.”

The lock is ludicrously small, and this close to the scent of John’s skin, Sherlock finds himself beginning to lose himself. His hands are shaking, and John’s breathing is speeding up, and oh that he would bury himself between these sweet thighs, take what has been given to him – he is _alpha_ , this boy is his prize, he will fuck him hurt him make him bleed – and Sherlock shudders, bracing himself against those thoughts, against that need, he could never hurt him, this boy who didn’t deserve any of this, who could even now find it within himself to smile.

“Sherlock,” John whispers, spine arching, and Sherlock’s hands are shaking as he tries to get the lock open, to free John of this torture. The boy – his _mate_ – is whining down low in his throat at their proximity, at the scent pouring from Sherlock’s skin. He moans in _pain_. If only Sherlock could open the lock, if only—

The lock pops free, and Sherlock can’t help but curse bitterly. John squirms backwards out of his reach, pressing himself against the headboard like it’s the only thing stopping him from bolting. He folds himself up in the nightshirt, but nothing could hope to hide the scent of an omega receptive to advances, an omega ready to be bred.

Sherlock stands, furious with his father, and Lord Tyren, but mostly himself and his inability to stop this tragedy from unfolding. He sets the chastity piece on the dresser, and vows to himself that if is the last thing he does on this earth he will have it melted, and made into a spectacular crown, and the day of his coronation as king he will give it to John as the symbol of his own power. The mate of the Lord of the Seven Moons, mother of all generations to come, and one of the most powerful thrones in all the ten realms. 

He vows this, on the head of the boy with his arms around his knees.

It’s obvious how frightened he is. Even here, in the dim light of the room, with nothing but lamplight to guide the way, Sherlock can see the gooseflesh all over John’s skin, the shuddering he is keeping so tightly in check. He smells like _breeding_ , his body begging for an alpha to fill him full, but his body language screams _stay away._

He thinks, then, back to his father’s words. John’s hand in the Bidding had come at the last moment. The calluses on his hands, his sun-kissed skin, the scars marking his pale skin. The twin sister. 

Of course.

“You should have let your sister come to this.”

John squirms, rubs his face on his upturned knees. “What?”

“Your sister.” He needs John to understand. There can be no confusion between them. “I’m not a kind man, John. The ideal situation would have been for all of us to continue along with our lives without interference, but if this was to be, a woman would have found this life easier to bear. You weren’t raised to be the submissive partner, the broodmare to the prince of a foreign court. How did you see this playing out?”

John’s eyes narrow. He is simply breathtaking. “Fuck you. How do you know about Heriathin?”

Sherlock looks down, away from that gaze, and finishes unlacing his trousers, pushing them down and off. When John makes an aborted movement down between his legs, as if to soothe where he hurts, the alpha howls in victory while the rest of him wants to weep. “You’re a knight. Calluses on your thumbs from the grip of your sword, calves muscular with repeated exercises. You favor your right side, the effects of an old war wound – given your age, it must be the Battle for the Lower Valley, two years ago now. You have a weak spot along your left flank that you have fought to master, because though your left is your predominant hand you use the right for your weaponry. You didn’t answer my question.”

John stares at him. “What? How—what?”

His eyes have gone glassy, watching as Sherlock undresses himself. It should be flattering, but Sherlock hates himself, and his nature, and the effect it’s having on this boy. John is flushed and pink, and his tongue darts out to lick his lower lip as the scent of _omega_ fills the room, sweet and heady on the nose. Sherlock has never smelled it, not like this, but wonders – with no little guilt – how he could have ever lived his life without it. 

He comes to John, in his simple robe, and watches the boy swallow. Sweat is running down his temples, dampening his hair. The heat is on him, and he doesn’t know how much of what he’s saying John is understanding. “You would have ruled comfortably as king, with whichever alpha you wished at your side. Your pregnancies would have been at your choosing, and with high honor on your children for being the babes of a king’s womb. You would have enjoyed the power of the throne, John, and used it well, yet here you are and there your sister is, thrust into a position she was not raised to understand. You’re a tactician, reasonably intelligent with the foresight afforded to you by campaign, and yet you chose this path with the full understanding of what was to come. Why? Why are you protecting her?”

John goes pale under the flush of his skin. He turns away, eyes fluttering closed, and rubs his temple against his knees. “Does it matter?”

It’s so small, so _defeated_. All Sherlock can see is John, bound and blindfolded. All he can hear is the sound of his chains against the marble floor. “Not anymore,” he says softly, and wonders at the circumstances that led John here – what could have possible occurred to make John throw himself into this situation, to sacrifice himself for his sister. 

He ducks down to catch John’s gaze. “I’m not a kind man, but I’m not a monster,” he says softly. “A woman would have found comfort in new friends, sewing, homemaking and children. Your sister would have come to find peace here.”

John is unable to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “I couldn’t let her get hurt.”

“Your father had plans for her,” Sherlock says, and after hesitating a moment to receive John’s permission, brushes his fingers gently through John’s hair. 

It’s as if his touch is lightening. John’s body contorts in an arch so humbling it hurts to look at, the supple curve of his spine an omega trait as beautiful as the sound he makes, sweet and _needy_. Sherlock brushes his thumb over the tear trailing down John’s cheek, as gently as he can. He doesn’t know what to say, what to possibly say, to relieve John’s anguish, but he tries as best he can. “My father saw something in you, enough to join our kingdoms together in marriage. I want to make very clear that this was not my decision anymore than it was yours, and outside of these necessary, and likely drugged, encounters, I do not expect you to warm my bed anymore than you should expect me to warm yours.”

He wills John to understand – Sherlock would not come to him, would not _force himself on him,_ after tonight. No living being deserved it, least of all the omega before him. 

The alpha within him is prowling at the edges of his mind, impatient with the need to mate. Sherlock curls his fingers into John’s hair and pulls back just enough, just enough so the omega’s throat is bare to him. John makes that noise again, that small and wailing cry, and Sherlock wants to set his teeth to that soft skin, mark him up. 

Before the rut was over, he would. He would destroy him, this beautiful creature given to him like a _gift_ , like one of the chests of emeralds sitting in his father’s throne room.

The thought fills him with rage, even while it gentles his hold. “I won’t hurt you,” Sherlock tells him, forcing their eyes to meet. “Look at me. I won’t hurt you. Do you understand?”

John’s eyes are enormous, pupils blown. The wet sheen of his eyes, the soft and needy keening, makes the alpha within roar with pleasure. “I hurt now,” John chokes out, digging his fist into his belly as if the pressure could relieve the pain.

Sherlock eases his grip in John’s hair. “Tell me. Tell me what you’ve done with other men.”

“Kissed,” John says, without realizing the rage his words incite – that Sherlock’s omega was ever touched by anyone else, by nameless and faceless men who would ruin his beauty. “M-my heats were well-timed, and I had—I took care of them.” 

He can’t say it, but Sherlock can connect the dots. He groans, low and soft and totally involuntary, at the thought of it, of those thighs wet and soft, touching himself, working himself open, even knowing he would find no relief in the touch. “Good. That’s good.” Sherlock presses his thumb gently to the curve of his jaw, near his ear. “Don’t be afraid.”

“What’s to be afraid of?” 

Oh, that the boy would ask. John has no idea what is coming – the rut, the mindless beast his new mate would become. Sherlock is terrified of himself, of what he is capable of when consumed by his season, and here this boy sits, a lamb who has no idea there is a wolf sitting before him. The burn within him is nearly unbearable, but Sherlock would not succumb, would push it back as much as possible. 

John deserved for his wedding night to be filled with joy and passion, and Sherlock would give it to him, as much as he possibly could, as much as he knew how. He would not rip this boy’s virginity from him, with blood and pain and tears. 

He lifts his eyes to John’s, that beautiful flushed face, and clenches his jaw until he tastes iron. “May I touch you?”

“Yes,” John says softly.

He doesn’t know where to begin, where to possibly begin. He’s never done this before, as virgin as the boy before him. All he can do is follow his instincts, which are screaming at him to fill his senses with the omega before him.

John presses back into the headboard, turning his face away when Sherlock brushes down underneath the nightshirt. John is so _wet_ , hot and soft and swollen open, and Sherlock is mesmerized by it, by the heat pouring from John’s body. “You don’t need -- I’ve been wet for ten minutes.”

“If something hurts, you have to tell me,” Sherlock tells him, shifting closer so he can reach. “I won’t make it awful for you, John. I’ll try to bring you pleasure.”

John is breathing so fast his chest is heaving. He presses a hand over his eyes. “Do it. I can’t stand it.”

He listens, and presses a finger in. 

The heat of John’s body doesn’t seem like it would be real. His slick makes it easy, but Sherlock takes his time. He pulls back and presses in, slowly, slowly, until his finger has slid all the way in. 

John’s hand is still over his eyes, and Sherlock allows it, even as he hates himself for doing this, for hurting John in this way. He works that single finger in and out, though the angle is awkward and it can’t be terribly comfortable for John. Unhurried, gentle touches, and John’s breathing begins to slow down from panicked gasps. “You’ve gone quiet,” Sherlock says, and John’s eyes blink open, wet and red. “Am I hurting you?”

“No,” John says, with a small laugh. “No more than I’m hurting you.”

In time to come, Sherlock thinks he will find a way to explain what the words do to him. With John’s simple acknowledgement Sherlock finds the well of self loathing within him ease. John understands. He understands the horror and the pain of this act they are being forced to perform, understands that Sherlock does not wish to hurt him. With the acknowledgement comes the need to _protect_ John, to make this something that they could both look back on without regret.

It isn’t tacit permission. Never that. But Sherlock is as chained by his instincts as John is, and there can only be one outcome here. The alpha and the omega, two parts of one whole.

“Lie back, John,” he says softly. John shakes his head even as his entrance grips with greedy need at Sherlock’s finger, even as his slick rolls down Sherlock’s wrist.

He squirms down until he is lying down and Sherlock helps him, rearranges them without being asked. John’s thighs are spread open, instinct he can’t control, and under Sherlock’s gaze they open even wider. “Please,” he begs softly. “I want. I want, _please_.”

Sherlock takes a moment, only a moment, to remove his robe. John keens at the loss of his touch, and Sherlock shushes him softly with two fingers, which take more time to slide in. The opening he’s stretching is still so tight in this first flush of heat, for all that it was made for this. The muscle flutters around Sherlock’s fingers, but Sherlock takes his time, waits for it to loosen before pressing deeper.

John’s thighs skitter over Sherlock’s shoulders, soft and pale and beautiful, wet with his slick. When he glances up John’s head is thrown back, his fingers twisting in the blankets, an invitation to mark the long line of his throat. Not yet. _Not yet_. “Please,” John begs, so beautifully. “Please, I need—” 

“Tell me.”

“Why are you doing this?” John asks on what is very nearly a sob. He turns his face away, rubs his hips down into the blankets, into Sherlock’s fingers inside of him.

Ridiculous, that he even need to ask. “You’re a virgin. And my consort. _Mine_ ,” Sherlock snarls, and the most incredible thing happens: John’s eyes roll into his head, he arches his back, thrusts once, twice into Sherlock’s fingers, and comes.

It’s so sudden that Sherlock has no idea what to do. John _wails_ , and keeps thrusting his hips in tiny, grinding rolls, as if to prolong the pleasure. He stares down at his fingers, at the muscle contracting around them, and presses on the glands around John’s entrance. It makes his next stroke in that much easier, and the orgasm is still rolling through John’s body, so he tries to find – he knows he – 

John moans, broken and gasping, as Sherlock finally, finally finds the omega’s knot deep within. He rubs as gently as he can, and knows he has succeeded when the slick comes, thicker, as he finally wills the vaginal opening to spread. John’s legs open, and his spine arches, and he _presents_ , a beautiful pose of need which would send any other alpha out of their mind. “Y-you – it’s my—” 

“Yes,” Sherlock murmurs, careful, so careful, even as he takes John apart. He can’t stop. He thinks it would take most of his father’s guard, and even then the alpha is still too close to the surface, thrilling in its victory. Already he is going mindless, but he has enough control to gentle in three fingers.

John rocks down into it, open and wet and moaning, and Sherlock knows he’s ready.

He shifts upwards, and becomes _aware_ of his cock in a way he never has before. He’s big for an alpha, he knows, but he is swollen now in a way he has never experienced, so hard that the first touch makes him hiss. He works John’s slick over his length as much as possible, and John is _shaking_ , but it’s too late. It’s far too late.

He murmurs, “It’s alright, John. I won’t hurt you,” but John isn’t listening – he’s lost, in the haze of his heat. He lifts John’s knees until they are flat on the bed, and slides his hand under John’s hips until he can slide as close as possible, until they are pressed together. The scent of his mate fills his nose, and Sherlock reaches down and presses himself against that soft and wet opening.

John tightens, his thighs where he’s gripping around Sherlock’s chest, and his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, and his opening, where Sherlock is pressing in. “Relax,” he says, and John fights it, fights Sherlock’s intrusion and his own reaction to it. It’s terrible, and beautiful, and Sherlock runs his fingers gently through John’s hair, gentles him even as he presses deep.

The sensation is something he can’t think about. The hot, velvety grip around his cock is something he never thought could exist; the scent of John’s skin, the touch of him, the warmth of him, something he never thought he could ever have. That it is against both their wills burns at the base of his throat. He mourns for the both of them, for all the things that would never be, and all the love neither of them would ever find. 

His knot is swollen, pressed against the curve of John’s body. In far less time than either of them needed it would swell, and grow, and join them together in a way neither could run from. It would happen again, and again, and again, in the hours and days to come, until John was screaming and Sherlock was a growling animal. It would happen because neither could withstand the onslaught of it.

Even so – even in this moment of sorrow and grief – they were more than their distinctions, more than alpha and omega. They were Sherlock, and John, and though neither wanted this, Sherlock would do everything in his power to never hurt John again, to never be the cause of the tears sparkling in John’s eyes, overflowing and trailing down his temples to catch in his hair. He stills, and soothes John’s fear as gently as he possible knows how, choking on his own need. “It’s done. It’s _done_ , John. We’ll wait as long as you need.”

John’s face is a mask of devastation, and it it burns a hole through Sherlock’s heart. He stares at the ceiling just beyond Sherlock’s shoulder, his limbs jerking – fighting, even now, even pierced to the quick. “I-- I’m a warrior in my land,” John says, gripping hard at Sherlock’s shoulders.

“I know.” He could never forget, not with the courage it had taken for John to do this. He presses a soft kiss to John’s knee, his thigh, the inner-most hollow of his elbow. “Does it hurt?”

“Yes. A different pain.” He shudders, and _ripples_ around Sherlock’s cock, eyes clenching shut. “ _It’s too much_.”

“I know,” Sherlock says softly, and taps into the well-spring of his magic. It’s an easy thing, to pull John’s pain into himself, to siphon it as much as he knows how. “You’re relaxing even now. In a moment I’ll move, and little by little it won’t hurt so much,” Sherlock whispers, stroking his fingers through John’s hair.

“I need you to move now,” John says, on a sob.

“Not yet. Your body knows what it wants, but it’s new to this.” He strokes a hand down John’s chest, over the heave of his lungs, and feels for John’s pain. It is almost gone, now, leaving behind the tension and an ache Sherlock can’t take, but can only ease. 

He shifts, slowly, into a better position, propping himself up on his elbows until he covers John, until his omega is safe beneath him. Their hips align better in this way, and John moans, low and soft and broken. He’s ready.

Slowly, infinitesimally, Sherlock loosens the iron grip of his control and pulls his hips back and then _in_ , a thrust so small it could hardly be called one. The sensation is exquisite, a pleasure he could have never fathomed, and Sherlock thinks he will never be able to forgive himself. 

John is still and silent beneath him, pale but for the high color in his cheeks. Sherlock thrusts deeper, seating himself with a snap of his hips that drives John’s own hips up, his knees sliding along Sherlock’s flanks. John moans again, softly, his beautiful blue eyes soft with his own confusion.

He thrusts. Again, and again, as slowly as he possibly can, never speeding up, never slowing down. In time John begins to relax, begins to anticipate Sherlock’s movements. His legs open that much further, and his face flushes anew, and between them his cock begins to harden once more. Sherlock works him slowly, slowly, and when John begins to gasp softly Sherlock lets himself go a little bit harder, a little bit faster.

“Sherlock,” John gasps, and he clenches his legs around Sherlock’s chest, as if to pull him into the position he wants. Sherlock goes where his omega directs, but it becomes clear it isn’t enough; John whines with distress, fingers gripping into his own hair. 

Sherlock pulls free for a moment, just enough for John to roll over and slide into the position he wants, on elbows and knees, his back curved beautifully. He’s so wet that his slick is dripping down his thighs, and Sherlock’s world goes foggy and distant, muted and yet somehow sharp – familiar and terrible. The rut is here.

He is lost.

He thrusts in, the angle perfect, too hard, and John cries out beneath him. He is breathing so fast that he grows lightheaded, and John is _begging_ beneath him, and Sherlock doesn’t know how but suddenly he is over John’s back, fisting his cock, and John sobs, “No, please, I—” and Sherlock growls, “ _Yes_ ,” thrusting in sharp bursts, in counterpoint to his grip on John’s cock. “Take your pleasure.”

He does. John grips his own hair, and the sheets beneath them, and comes, spilling all over. The contractions grip Sherlock’s cock tightly, and he drops down, grips John under his belly until they are flush, and takes what is his. He thrusts hard, and John is moaning, small and pained, and the knot finally flares to life. He thrusts it in with a sharp snap of his hips and John _screams_ as his body accepts it, writhing against Sherlock’s hold where he is caught, helpless and unable to run. “ _Mine_ ,” Sherlock snarls, and bites the back of that beautiful neck, the join where neck and shoulder meet as he roars his completion, his ownership of the omega beneath him.

All he can do is protect his omega, pull him beneath his body, shield him from the world. All he can do is fill him with his seed, breed him until it takes, until John grows round and full. It’s all Sherlock wants, all he could possibly want – nothing else in the world matters except this, John under him, safe and protected, speared on Sherlock’s knot where he should always, always be.

John whimpers, and Sherlock noses into his neck streaked red with blood, licking his cheek softly in apology. He tastes salt, and so turns John’s face to him, so he can see, so he can check that he isn’t hurt. “Alright?”

John shakes his head no, and Sherlock understands. He understands. Neither of them are alright, could never be alright again.

His omega is tired. He’s tired, and he’s been hurt, and Sherlock will try and fix that hurt, will try and soothe it until John is all right again, until he stands proud and beautiful at Sherlock’s side. He pulls the nightgown down, gently, gently, and the blankets up, and tucks John close, as close as he can.

It will be the last coherent thing he’ll remember for three days.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The peace summit, for all that it's a lot of political nonsense, is a necessary evil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a response to a combination of prompts, so thank you to katolina35, abbykate, and the great anonymouses who asked for Aloise. :) Thanks guys! And thank you to everyone who has stuck with this story -- your wonderful comments and encouragement have kept me writing in this 'verse. :)
> 
> This takes place a few years after Aloise's birth and the war they averted at the end of Seven Moons.

John goes into labor at the end of the peace summit.

He’s _round_ , his mate, and has been almost since the beginning. Lady Hudson had assured him that many omegas, and beta women for that matter, grew very heavy very quickly with their second pregnancy. This is true of John.

He would never say this, never so much as _think_ it near John, but Sherlock finds his pregnancy incredibly beautiful. It soothes an instinct he never knew he had, but such has been his mated life so far: a series of inexplicable urges, with a surprising learning curve. Sherlock does his best not to acknowledge them outright like the alpha lug he can admit to sometimes being. He does his best not to stare disrespectfully at the huge swell of John’s belly, the soft roundness of his breasts, the glow in his cheeks, though he finds it more and more difficult with each passing day.

John had gone silent when Sherlock’s father had announced the peace summit, white to the lips. That evening, Sherlock had walked in on John quietly shaking in the library, with a grief so deep and profound he had not dared intrude on him. Sherlock hadn’t understood, not until one night a few days later, quiet in their bed, when John finally says, “I love you and our children more than anything in this world. Do you believe that?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, into the softness of John’s hair. “Of course I do.”

“And do you love me?”

There weren’t words for what Sherlock felt for John, his mate who had given him the priceless gift of himself and the family they had made together. He would kill for John. He would burn the world to the ground if it meant his safety and survival. “I do. Of course I do,” Sherlock replies, because there isn’t anything he could say, no words he could possibly string together, to convey the depth of his feeling. “Let me help you,” he adds, as gently as he possibly can. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

John doesn’t meet his eyes, instead stares at where he’s touching Sherlock’s throat, over the pale scar John had left that first mating, those years ago when they were still new together, drugged and terrified. “Your father’s peace summit. It’s necessary, after the war I – after the war. All the families of the ten realms will be here. My parents will be here. My sister.”

Sherlock had considered it, had wanted to delay the summit until after their son’s birth, but his father had remained insistent on the date– the time of year when the moon’s power was strongest, their magic at its height. He studies his mate. “You don’t wish to see them.”

John shakes his head. His chest shudders against Sherlock’s as he quells his immediate response. “It’s alright. It’s alright, John.”

“You would think, after all this time, that I could forgive them,” John says. His fingers pluck over Sherlock’s chest, restless. “I love you, and our family, and my life here – I am content in a way I never imagined for myself. But inside of me lives an anger that I dare not acknowledge,” John rasps, rough and broken. “My father auctioned me to the highest bidder, and chained me up and took me to a foreign land, my virginity and my womb given as a gift for the security of our borders. That it was you waiting for me has been my saving grace, but it could have easily been someone like James – worse than him. Do you understand?”

“I do,” Sherlock murmurs, turning just enough to nudge John’s chin up. When his mate’s eyes open the tears caught in his lashes overflow, and John’s face crumples. “John.”

“My family sold me and now, now I feel as if – as if my father is going to look at me and feel contentment for a job well done. He will be pleased to see me as I am, pregnant and barely capable of walking. He’ll be _satisfied_ ,” and oh, now John snarls, the anger so beautiful in his flushed face. 

Sherlock is astonished, a singularly peculiar thing. He has known John carried this anger with him. It was impossible not to see it, and he, more than most, understood it, because he had been the other side of their arranged marriage. But this, to feel such violation, is a pain Sherlock must help John shoulder. “If you so wish it, we could give an excuse. An illness, perhaps. You wouldn’t need to leave our rooms. None would blame you for it, because your father is a fool to have given you away. But John,” he ducks down to meet John’s eyes, “I would be terribly disappointed not to see you, resplendent and beautiful, meeting the rulers of the ten realms.”

John dashes the tears from his face, angry, and with such hurt. It cores Sherlock to see it, as if all of his insides are being twisted into a knot. That he must rectify this is not a question.

“You hold more power in this kingdom than even my father. You have ensured the passing of the crown to a child of my father’s blood. You have ensured the future of our realm, not once, but twice now. You hold more sway than even Mycroft. Don’t you understand?” He smiles. “John. He would bring the stars down from the night sky if you so wished to have them light the nursery.”

John stares at him. “You don’t mean that.”

“I rarely say things I don’t mean.” He very carefully untangles himself from John’s embrace and climbs from the bed. “I have something for you. I wanted to wait to give it to you until my coronation this winter, but perhaps now would be for the best.”

In the bottom drawer of his chest is a wooden box, engraved beautifully with the crest of Sherlock’s house. He sets it on the bed and helps John sit up, the weight of their growing son heavy and awkward. “What is it?”

“Open it and find out.”

John touches his fingertips to the box, the beautiful filigree. He opens it. His eyes widen, impossibly large. “Sherlock.”

Within the box is a crown, so magnificent that even Sherlock’s father had been stunned. It is a circle of delicate wheat, to represent the plain realms, but woven within it are the branches of Sherlock’s house, the mighty oaks that soar over the mountains of the Seven Moons. There is but a single jewel, the rarest diamond in all the Ten Realms. The Winter Stone had adorned the crown of each and every mother of the realm for over a thousand years. It rests in the center, radiant, a blue so rich and deep that it seemed impossible that something so striking could have come from the earth. 

John is quiet, stunned, and Sherlock lifts the crown from the box. “It took our master craftsman nearly a year to finish this. You see, I had a special request, John. When you were presented to me that first night, I swore that on my life your chains of bondage would be melted to create a crown of the most breathtaking beauty. I swore that you would never have reason to be so frightened again.” 

“You – Sherlock,” John croaks, as Sherlock gently, gently sets the crown on his head. The picture he makes takes Sherlock’s breath away. It’s so easy to forget the trappings of their rank, but now, even in his night clothes and round with Sherlock’s child, John looks every inch the prince consort, as if by a simple command he could turn day into night and the oceans into sand if he so wished. In the crown is _power_ , a power John doesn’t yet understand but which he would come to know, intimately. 

The royal families of the Ten Realms already do.

He sees it in the eyes of King Lionel, the oldest of the southern lords, and the first to arrive with his party for the peace summit. He sees it in the faces of the princes and princesses, of the knights and ladies who have accompanied their kings. 

The kings and queens of the realm are absolutely taken with Aloise, who admittedly had gotten most of her charm from her mother. All had asked after John and the baby, and all had not dared so much as get near him. John, he knows, has noticed how careful they are to maintain a respectful distance, how none will touch him, even to shake his hand. It is a sign of utmost deference to Sherlock and his family. After all, the balance of power in the Ten Realms is shifting before their eyes, represented in his beautiful daughter who clutches Sherlock’s robes and hides her face behind his knee, in John, magnificent and so royal that Sherlock aches to look at him.

That this should be his and his alone humbles him as nothing ever has.

John’s family is one of the last to arrive. Perhaps by fate, Sherlock’s father is busy preparing for the summit, and Mycroft has fallen ill with a cold that had turned him into disgraceful, snotty mess. It is up to Sherlock to greet their last guests. 

Though all the families of the realms had brought with them gifts, Lord Tyren arrives with a caravan much like he had on their first arrival, heavy with bolts of cloth, caskets of wine, flavorful cheeses and of course, a dozen spectacular thoroughbreds. 

Lord Tyren climbs down from the caravan car, and with him are two women. One must be John’s mother, a surprisingly statuesque woman with thin, delicate features. Beside her is the little slip of a girl who would be queen: Heriathin, the twin sister of his mate.

They enter the grand hall, snow dusted at their feet. Sherlock sees the exact moment Lord Tyren sees the Winter Stone, the exact moment when he realizes how much has changed in these years since their kingdoms nearly went to war. 

He does not attempt familiarity. Lord Tyren bows first, low and with the deepest respect, first to Sherlock, and then to his son. “My lords. Jounhin,” Lord Tyren says, quietly. “May I present to you your mother and sister, on this, their first visit to the Realm of the Seven Moons.”

John’s face could be made of marble. He wears no expression at all, and even his eyes, usually so full of expression, are placid and deep, like lake water on a still winter morning. “You are welcome to our kingdom,” he says. He is not the same man who had tickled Prince Leif’s tiny feet until he squealed in his mother’s arms, who had hugged his eastern cousins tightly. He is the prince consort of a royal family rich with power. Sherlock has never felt such a strange combination of emotions.

When nothing more is forthcoming, Lord Tyren waves a hand out to the caravan. “My lords, I bring gifts to our continued friendship.”

“We brought sweets,” Heriathin blurts, fingers laced tightly before her. “And dolls and dresses for Aloise, and a rocking horse for the new baby.”

John’s expression doesn’t change – if anything, there is a hard edge to it now that hurts Sherlock to the quick to witness. “My mate and I thank you for your generous gifts,” he says, and this time both he and Sherlock bow. He knows it takes everything in John to straighten once more, but straighten he does, without a single ounce of help. He has never been so beautiful. “You are to be quartered in the ninth spire overlooking the orchard. Sir Lestrade will help you find your apartments.”

“John,” Heriathin whispers, tears shimmering in her eyes, but Lady Hanna comes forward and says, “We thank you, my son.”

Lord Tyren leads them away, and Sherlock grips his mate’s hand, hard, when John’s knees tremble. “It’s alright. You got through the worst of it. You don’t need to see them again if you wish it.” 

Aloise whines, loudly, and Sherlock lifts her up. Her chin is trembling, her eyes sheened with tears. John presses kisses to her cheeks, murmurs softly to her until she scrubs the back of her hand over her eyes. “I don’t like when you’s sad. My friend neither,” she whispers. 

They don’t remark on the ‘friend’ – Aloise was going through a phase where everything and everyone was her friend, up to and including those of the imaginary sort. This friend, she said, told her funny jokes at inopportune times (like when they were supposed to be serious at Temple), or told her to sneak her vegetables to the dog (who gobbled them up and then had to sleep outside), or told her that her bedroom wall was as good a place as any to draw on (“He say I am an artist, Papa!).

John forces a smile, tugging on one of her braids. “I’m not sad, why would I be sad? We’re going to have a grand party tomorrow.”

She sniffles, woeful, and rests her cheek on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Party?”

“A wonderful party, full of music and dancing,” Sherlock tells her, rubbing her back softly before taking John’s hand. “For now, I think it’s well past time for a lie-down, what do you think?”

“No lie-down,” Aloise huffs, grumpy and sour. Her face squishes up with the sort of indignation that is truly ridiculous on her tiny face.

They argue all the way to their rooms, until Aloise falls asleep mid-word, slumped there at Sherlock’s shoulder.

 

.

The peace summit, for all that it's a lot of political nonsense, is a necessary evil. His father solidifies his power once more, taking his moon oath for this, his eighty-ninth year as Lord and King. 

The lords of all the Ten Realms come together and strengthen the bonds of peace. New alliances are made. Princes and princesses are betrothed to members of other houses, and John’s face is outwardly calm, except for the stab of grief in his eyes. They flicker up to him, and Sherlock thinks of his beautiful girlchild. John was right – they are mates only because of luck. Many marriages in the Ten Realms were cold, alphas and betas and omegas thrown together without love, and he knows he will never, _could never_ , do that to either of his children. 

Of his family, Heriathin is the only member to attempt to speak to John. And attempt she does. At the grand feast, on the second to last evening of the summit, Heriathin approaches. Once, twice, thrice she comes to the high table, and each time something in John’s face breaks open, until finally, he asks, “What could you possibly have to say to me, Heriathin?”

She is small, petite in a way her brother is not, and Sherlock recognizes echoes of his daughter in her pixie features. The upturned nose, the big eyes. But unlike Aloise, there is something about this woman that makes Sherlock curious, as if he is only glimpsing the surface. As if she’s hiding something.

She wrings her hands tightly. “I miss you, John. I miss you so much, all the time.”

“This is the way of it,” he says, tired, as if the grief of seeing his family again is weighing on his very bones. He waves her to his side, to the empty chair were Aloise had sat until Lady Hudson had carted her off to bed. “Did Mother put you up to this?”

She shakes her head. She won’t meet Sherlock’s steady gaze – her eyes only darting to him furtively. “I just wanted to see you, John. To speak with you before we leave. You haven’t – you haven’t even looked our way.”

John sits back in his seat. She does him the honor of not looking at his belly. “There is bad blood between Father and I. You know this.”

Her chin trembles, and she looks so like John that it takes Sherlock’s breath away. “It hasn’t been easy at home, John. I have to stop myself from hating him, every single day. I thought you’d come home, that you’d find a way to come home,” she says, in a rush, as if she’s finally telling some terribly secret. In a way it is, because it is simply another burden for John to endure, that even after his sacrifice, his sister was still not happy. “That first year, I thought – my brother is so strong, he’ll escape and come back to us, to our family, so we can be happy again.”

“Who is it?” Sherlock asks. “The alpha you’re going to run away with.”

Her eyes fly to him. “What?”

John’s eyes widen impossibly, and Heriathin’s fingers clench, white. “Sherlock.”

He glances at his mate. “I know you hate it when I’m clever.”

“No, I hate when you’re _insufferably_ clever. There’s a distinct difference.” But John isn’t looking at Sherlock – he’s staring at his sister, who unlike her brother, cannot lie to save her life. The girl is _trembling_ , and for the first time since their arrival John reaches out, touches her hand. Her fingers turn, open, and link tightly with his. “Is it true?” John asks softly. 

“She’s a blacksmith’s daughter,” Heriathin murmurs, white to the lips. 

Sherlock tilts his head. “You love her.”

“Her name is Clara,” Heriathin whispers, as tears trail down her face. “I’ve fought it, John, for so long. I – I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

His mate’s expression is perplexed, even as he gently thumbs away Heriathin’s tears. “Why are you sorry? Whatever for?”

“You gave up everything,” Heriathin whispers, cupping John’s palm to her cheek. “You gave up everything so I might be queen.”

“No,” John says, and ducks down just enough to catch her eye. “No, Hery. I gave up everything to give you the freedom to choose your path.”

The girl sobs, and Sherlock realizes they’re beginning to create a scene. Mycroft’s eyes are narrowed across the banquet hall (bloodshot as they are, the man is really far too disgusting to be out in public yet), and Lady Hanna is watching as if she can just figure out what they’re saying. Sherlock rises, helps John stand. He stares down at the poor slip of a girl, this creature without wisdom, or consideration for others, but with a good and decent heart. 

He takes her hand in his. “Would you care to join us for a walk?”

Heriathin’s eyes shimmer, but she nods, staring at her brother with such naked hope that it makes even Sherlock’s heart warm.

 

.

John goes into labor in the middle of the night. 

Unlike with Aloise, John shows no early signs of labor. Unlike with Aloise, Sherlock is there when it begins. 

It is the darkest part of the night, when John utters a low, anguished moan. It is enough to bring Sherlock awake in seconds. The candles all flare to life before he can will them, and when he looks down to his mate, he already knows what’s happening. He needs only pull back the sheets to confirm it. 

“John,” he murmurs, stroking the hair, sweaty and damp, from John’s face. “John.”

His mate moans again, soft and low, eyes blinking open only to crease with pain. The blood seeping into their night shirts is a dark and brilliant red. He runs his hand over John’s belly only to find it firm as a drum. 

John labors long through the night. He begs Sherlock to take him to the laboratory, where he’d given birth to Aloise those years ago, in agony and alone. He feels safe there, he tells Sherlock through long, panting groans, and though he has his reservations, Sherlock could never deny him this simple request.

Sherlock has never before witnessed anything so beautiful, or so terrifying, or so human. John wails and Sherlock cries out with him; John writhes and Sherlock grips his hands tightly, lends him all of his strength. John begs for them to help him kneel and Sherlock is there, behind him, holding him up. His mate is bleeding, and sobbing, and Sherlock soothes him as best he can, lies back until John is resting in the vee of his thighs, the back of his head rolling on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock murmurs stories to him in the periods between contractions, soft and lovely little things about a family of deer in the forest – stories his mother had whispered to him to soothe the worst of his nightmares when he was no older than Aloise. 

Sherlock is aware of his father coming in and out, his brother, but all he can focus on is John. They reach a point where Lady Hudson’s lips begin to tighten with worry, but just when Sherlock thinks John can’t do it, that he’s going to die here screaming in Sherlock’s arms, they finally reach the crest. It is contraction after contraction, and John is making inhuman noises, his face white and drenched with sweat as they leave him no reprieve. For the first time Sherlock is witness to his mate’s strength, a strength he knew John possessed but had never witnessed – the strength of all omega.

It is dawn, the sun just beginning to draw up over the snow-capped mountains, when their little son is born. He is but a handful, a red-faced little thing with a healthy set of lungs. For a moment – just one single fraction of a moment – Sherlock’s magic overwhelms him and he sees this baby as he will one day be, tall and handsome with a shock of dark curls, kissing his sister’s cheek on the day of her wedding. When he blinks again it is John, crying openly and laughing, and their baby, wailing and so beautiful Sherlock is overwhelmed. His children. His girl, and his boy, and his mate. The four of them, forever.

Later that morning, Aloise is finally brought in to meet her baby brother. When they tell Aloise his name, she says, “Daddy, my friend is happy.”

“Is he?” John murmurs, exhausted. He brushes her curls back from her face. “Why so, darling?”

“He say he didn’t need a namesake, but he’s happy. He’s so happy, Daddy.”

Sherlock sits up from his doze to stare at his daughter, but she’s not paying him any attention – she’s enraptured by the baby, who’s blinked his little eyes open and is staring up at his sister as she clumsily gives him kisses. John’s smiling, bright as the sun, and Sherlock holds his hand, tightly, linking their fingers. “Shall I tell you a wonderful story about the time your uncle fell into the river and Sir Michael saved him?” he asks, and Aloise laughs, clapping her hands with delight.

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up on [Tumblr](http://ladyflowdi.tumblr.com/)!


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